


A Heart so Furious, A Heart so Still

by noalinnea



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:16:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5068663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noalinnea/pseuds/noalinnea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the fellowship leaves Rivendell, Boromir's words follow Aragorn like a shadow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Heart so Furious, A Heart so Still

**Author's Note:**

  * For [splix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/splix/gifts).



> For splix. I hope you enjoy reading this!

Council.

When they left Rivendell, the words followed him like a shadow, echoing in his head during all waking hours and even invading his dreams. Like a sword expertly wielded, they had hit their mark, cutting straight into his guts.

_Gondor needs no king._

When he had last laid eyes on the Steward’s oldest son, he had been a fair haired boy on a stout pony, far too serious for his age, accompanying his father wherever he went. He had gained gravitas with the winters he had seen since, his posture almost regal despite his muscular build, his head held up high, his jaw set proudly, so very much like his father’s. Elrond had chosen to describe him as a man with strong feelings about Gondor; proud, but not unreasonable. He spoke with ease, accustomed to being heard, his green eyes flashing passionately. The desperation rang true in his voice when he accounted for the lives Gondor had lost in protecting the borders. Yet, desperation was a dangerous council, and the words that followed brought forth a vivid image of the Steward himself before Aragorn’s inner eye, because they were his words, the words of a man who always had possessed the conceit of the undisputable leader along with the firm believe in his inerrability and who was now under growing pressure. As was his son, who charged instantly at him, his eyes narrowed in contempt.

_Gondor needs no king._

His father’s true son.

 

Travelling.

The travelling order they had established left him staring at the broad silent shoulders of the Gondorian warrior for hours and hours, if not the Steward’s son brought up the rear and he could feel his eyes piercing his back all day, his close proximity unsettling him. There never were more words than necessary, the silence hanging heavy between them, heavier with every passage of the sun, and Aragorn found his gaze directed at him at every turn, challenging him constantly, found him tracking his every movement in silence, not one of his steps going unnoticed.

 

Observations.

He was civil to their companions, and outright kind to the four hobbits, looking out for them as one would for a child and always seeing after their well-being. There were laugh lines around his eyes, faint, but visible in the sunlight, visible when he turned towards one of the hobbits, and Aragorn wondered what kind of a father he would have made, and if he would have steered clear of the mistakes he had witnessed the Steward make. He took care of the pony most of the days, and hurried to take the reins from Sam when the terrain got difficult, his voice dropping to a murmur when he spoke to the animal, gentle, deep, low. With the dwarf he spoke about battle and weapons, with Gandalf he shared a smoke by the fire when they made camp, he even engaged Legolas in conversation. But even as the days became weeks Aragorn was met with skepticism at best, sometimes even with open hostility, if not the Gondorian’s expression was as heavily guarded as the White City itself.

 

Dawn.

Only at the break of dawn would he still feel free, his heart sometimes almost light when Legolas was sitting at his side, not moving a single muscle, their eyes turned towards the awakening sky in the east while they awaited the arrival of the new day in silence, both following the trails of their thoughts. But when the camp stirred and he instantly felt his eyes seek him out, the tension in his shoulders immediately returned, his uneasiness growing with every waking second of the Steward’s son.

 

Rejection.

He turned at Merry's astonished squeal, just in time to see the Steward’s son stumble and then crash down the slope beneath their path in a cloud of dust. Aragorn was at his side in an instant, watching him wince when he sat up, before he reluctantly reached for Aragorn’s outstretched hand, more pushing himself up than letting Aragorn help him, avoiding his eyes. He turned towards the concerned hobbits who immediately surrounded him, and he was left standing there, once more staring at his silent back.

 

Doubts.

He felt tongue-tied and self-conscious around him, his fierce territoriality wearing him down, slowly but steadily. How could he think of standing up against him, based on what grounds? On the idea of a fading bloodline? He was no statesman, no diplomat, he did not care about power and decorum, he did not even particularly care about the indoors. He would need the knowledge and skills the Steward’s son had, having been raised to succeed his father and assumed his duties when the time would come. He would need him at his side if he wanted to convince the White City of his claim. But what could he give him to believe in? What did he have to offer but his blood and his ancestry?

 

Outsider.

When he returned from gathering firewood he heard him laugh, a deep rumble from somewhere deep inside his chest. He stopped in his tracks, not wanting to interrupt the moment through his arrival, laughter having become rare throughout their journey. He stood in the shadows for a moment, observing his companions, lost in thought, when a light touch on his shoulder startled him. He turned to find Legolas standing behind. "He will come around eventually,” he said quietly. “Let him find his way. Patience, Estel.”

 

Storm.

  
The rain was drumming on their heads and they were soaked and cold to the bone, the wind coming in harsh gusts. He could barely make out the tall figure of Gandalf who was leading the way, the path only occasionally illuminated by the lightning bolts that flashed across the sky. They started arguing at a crossroads, their tempers colliding like the forces upsetting the sky above them, eyes flashing, voices trying to drown the rain and thunder, neither of them willing to let go. Aragorn could feel his frustration grow with every second that passed, and with it his anger, when Legolas stepped between them. “Aragorn is right,” he said, his expression impartial. “We need to seek shelter.” The Steward’s son stared at him for a long moment, his eyes narrowed to slits, his face contorted in rage, before he turned without another word and gathered the ponies’ reigns from Sam, leaving Aragorn behind trembling and sick to his stomach.

 

The White City.

There was so much warmth in his voice whenever he spoke of the White City, and more than ever Aragorn wished he had something to offer, to contribute, wondering what it would feel like to be greeted by silver trumpets at this man’s side, returning home from the battlefield, brothers in arms, Boromir and Aragorn, Lords of Gondor.

 

Lothlorien.

After Gandalf--, his gaze lost its challenging edge. Aragorn would still turn to find his eyes directed at him, but now he often found his brow furrowed in thought, the hostility gone. At times, there even was a nod, the corners of his mouth turning upwards for a second, before Boromir calmly would turn back to the task at hand. The sleep, that had eluded him, finally returned under the stars of Lothlorien. There were few words, just his stoic presence, and Aragorn felt himself unwind slowly.

He sought him out on the river bank in the dim light of dawn and for a long moment they stood there in silence, contemplating the fog rising from the water. Boromir's voice was soft when he spoke and when Aragorn turned towards him, his expression was open. _I simply want what's best for my people. For our people._

 

Temptation.

He would not be tempted, not by his reasoning, not by his passion, even if it was enticing. He would not be tempted. Boromir was agitated, his eyes flashing, his cheeks flushed, and he gesticulated lively. He spoke of lives lost, of land that needed protection, of the era of Man, of the benefit the One Ring would bring its owner, of a golden future, and Aragorn could feel his words getting under his skin, could feel his resolve threaten to unravel, before the panic that gripped his heart at this realization made his heart stumble and caused him to leash out at Boromir, driving him back behind his lines of defense.

 

Departure.

At the end of the world what was left were his convulsing body, his ashen face and his cold fingers. The sound of the waterfall was deafeningly loud when Aragorn carried his body to the shore and washed his face with trembling hands. His thoughts swirled like the current when he pushed the boat away from the shore and its outlines blurred when the tears started to fall. The trumpets would remain silent for a long time.

 

Reminiscence.

He could still taste the salt of Boromir's sweat and his own tears on his lips, could still feel the pain searing through him. Next to him, his Steward’s face almost was as ashen as his brother's had been at the shores of the Anduin. When the first silvery note resounded in the courtyard, Faramir knelt down and placed the cloven horn into the soft ground, and all the King could do, was to fix his eyes on the horizon, his nails digging hard enough into his palms to draw blood.

He still stood there when the night fell, long after the last tone had rung out and the crowd had dispersed, and listened to the gentle rustling of the leaves of the White Tree above him in the autumn breeze and his whisper in his ears:

_The Lords of Gondor have returned._

 

 


End file.
